This Steady Hand Is Obsolete
by DirigibleBoyKing
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester were raised in Lawrence, Kansas, by their loving parents, Mary and John. As children, their relationship was good, if a little distant. Despite everything, when Sam begins to get visions, Dean's the only person left he can trust.
1. In Which Much Vomit Is Produced

When Sam opened his glued-up eyes, he was met with a sliver of light that sent a throb through his skull.

Migraine, then. Or hangover.

He peeled his cheek up from the carpet. Then he tried to move his legs, and realised he couldn't feel the left one.

A muzzy groan from behind him.

'Dean?'

'Mm.'

'You're humping my leg.'

'Right.'

He felt Dean roll away, and Sam's shin blossomed into pins and needles. Getting unsteadily to his feet, he pulled down the blinds, blocking out the light. He avoided the mirror, since he was pretty sure he had carpet-burn on his face.

The blinds down, Sam collapsed onto a sofa. Details from last night were beginning to trickle through. The party... oh God, what had possessed him to drink Luis's tequila? They'd come back to Palo Alto afterwards, Sam and Dean and Brady and Luis drinking each other under the table- well, Dean drinking Sam under the table, anyway- and all sort of passed out in a heap sometime later.

Sam cracked an eye open. Dean was spread-eagled, snoring, on his back on the carpet. Maybe Sam should put him into the recovery position or something? He'd heard stories of people choking on their own vomit. A kid was hospitalised last semester.

He'd get up in a second and do it.

In a second.

 **SPN SPN SPN**

It was him again; the man with the yellow eyes. He sat on the end of Sam's sofa, and Sam immediately sat up, inching back.

'Well, hey there, Sammy-boy,' he said, grinning. 'Nice to see you again.'

'It's Sam,' said Sam. 'And I don't remember meeting you before.'

The man chuckled. 'Maybe if you think real hard about it.'

Sam frowned, but said nothing.

'Well?' said the man after a minute, his eyes gleaming. 'Aren't you _curious_ , Sam? Aren't you wondering why I'm here? All the things a bright young man like you could dream about, and lo and behold, it's a janitor's meatsuit. Don't you find that just a _little_ suspicious?'

'Well, this is a dream, right?' said Sam. 'So no. Not particularly.'

'And that,' said the man, cracking his knuckles in a sinuous wave, 'is why I'm very much afraid you're not going to survive this war.' He sighed, as if half-regretful.

Sam scrunched up his nose. 'I'm not going to _die_.'

'Oh, Sammy,' said the man, smiling wide, 'ever the skeptic,' and he reached forward to graze a knuckle down the side of Sam's face.

Sam flinched.

The man laughed, before breaking off and cocking his head to the side. It was as if he was listening for something, but all Sam could hear was Dean's quiet snoring.

Barely breathing, Sam waited, not daring to move away from the man's hand on his cheek.

Then the man looked at him almost fondly, withdrawing his hand. 'Why, Sam,' he said, 'I do believe you've got a visitor.'

 **SPN SPN SPN**

He came to still lying on the sofa, disoriented for a few seconds. It took him a few moments to register that someone was knocking on the door.

'Dean?'

Dean carried on snoring.

Sam got slowly up from the sofa. His mouth tasted like a skunk had nested in it. He raked a hand through his hair, wrenching the front door open. Light skewered his eyes, and he shaded them with a hand.

Jess stood on the doorstep, hair in perfect waves, all tank top and legs for days. She raised one eyebrow on seeing Sam, who was barefoot, in yesterday's clothes, his hair sticking up everywhere. 'Fun night, huh?'

Sam groaned. 'Don't.'

She peered round the doorframe. 'Is it safe for me to come in? I won't bump into, like, Luis wandering around naked? Seriously, I have no idea how wasted guys act in the morning.'

'I haven't even seen Luis. And I think Brady went home. Just don't trip over Dean.'

He followed Jess in; she sat down on the sofa, wrinkling her nose at the sight- and probably smell- of Dean splayed out on the floor. Sam curled up beside her and tried to lay his head on her shoulder, but she pushed him off. 'No way am I kissing you until you've brushed your teeth.'

'I hate you.'

'I hate you too. I'll make coffee.'

'Ugh. Thanks.'

Sam headed for the bathroom, but stopped at the door. 'Uh, how was Becky's?'

'It was awesome.' She paused. 'Apparently there's a guy asking around for you.'

He frowned. 'Oh, yeah? Who?'

'A Gordon Walker. You know him?'

Sam shrugged. 'Never heard of him.'

'Gordon who?'

Sam and Jess looked round. Dean was standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

'Well, you look like crap,' said Sam unsympathetically.

'Yeah, thanks, Sherlock. Gordon who?'

'Uh, Walker.'

Dean shrugged. 'Never heard of him.' He looked at Sam. 'One of Mom's friends, maybe?'

'Maybe.'

Looking over at Jess, Dean grinned. 'So, uh, you said something about coffee?'

Sam and Jess exchanged glances, but all Jess said was 'Yeah, sure.'

 **SPN SPN SPN**

In the bathroom, Sam scrubbed the fur from his mouth, then stuck his face under the cold tap. The cold water woke him up some, but his headache only seemed to intensify.

He bent his forehead to the porcelein, but then-

Golden hair lit red by flames-

Her eyes petrified and luminous and accusing all at once-

The gleam of white satin, and the smell, oh God, the _smell_ -

Sam folded to one knee, retching helplessly.

 **SPN SPN SPN**

Dean stopped in the doorway of the bathroom, peering inside. It was shadowy in there, but he could just about make out Sam's silhouette. His younger brother seemed to be resting his head on the toilet bowl.

He chuckled inwardly. Sam and his virgin liver. 'You okay there, Sammy?'

'Fuck you.' Sam's voice was cracked.

'I'll take a raincheck.'

Sam got unsteadily to his feet, flushing the toilet. He walked out of the bathroom, weaving slightly from side to side. Dean stepped back to let him past. Oh, well, it wasn't as if Jess couldn't look after the kid.

'Sam,' he called after his brother.

'What?'

'I'm leaving. Just thought I'd tell you. Carmen's expecting me back for two- and we're going to a restuarant with Mom and Dad.' He paused. 'So, uh, congrats on the full ride. How about next time you get a scholarship we don't celebrate through substance abuse, huh?'

Sam half-turned, kneading his fingers into his temples. His face looked almost grey. Though Dean figured he probably looked like that himself before his first coffee of the day.

'Yeah,' Sam said, though his voice sounded strained. 'Have fun. Um, say hi to-' He broke off, wincing- 'to Mom and Dad-' another wince, and he braced his arm against the wall-

Dean moved forward to catch him, but Sam stayed upright. 'N-no,' he said, though his voice was shaky, 'I'm fine. Just, uh-' he closed his eyes briefly, swaying where he stood. 'A hangover. I guess.'

'You sure?' said Dean.

'What? Oh, yeah. Uh-huh.' Sam ducked through the door into his and Jess's room. 'See you, Dean.'

The door closed behind him, and Dean was left to stare at it.

'Must be one bitch of a hangover, then,' was all he could think of to say.


	2. In Which Tyson Brady Plays The Dean

'Sam says hi, by the way,' Dean said, through a mouthful of roast chicken.

His mother looked concerned, pausing in the middle of passing Carmen a plate. 'Is he doing okay?'

Dean snorted. 'Livin' the high life. He'll be fine when he's peeled his forehead off the floor.'

Carmen rolled her eyes. 'Dean.'

'What? Some friend of Sam's turns up with some of the hard stuff, he's a responsible adult, he can handle it-'

Mary Winchester cut Dean off with a frown. 'Dean, I thought we'd discussed this.'

Dean rolled his eyes.

He and Carmen lived ten minutes away from his mom, so after her divorce from John, and Sam leaving for Stanford, they'd made a habit of coming for lunch every Sunday. His mom was a good cook, so Dean usually enjoyed himself, though it was kind of alarming how well Carmen and his mom got on.

'Are you caught up on Dr Sexy yet, Mary?' Carmen was asking.

'Yes, actually. God, can you believe about Doctor Piccolo?'

 **SPN SPN SPN**

'I can't believe it,' Sam said to the pitch-black room.

There was the sound of someone coming down the stairs, treading carefully, and then Jess's voice came out of the darkness. 'Just a power outage, right?'

Sam gestured vaguely at the ceiling. 'I was standing here. I was right here and they just went out. Just like that.'

'Shit.'

They fumbled their way back upstairs, Sam's right hand on the back of Jess's top, his left groping along the wall. On the landing, Jess started feeling around for something. 'Sam, do you know where the matches are?'

Sam found the matches at the back of a drawer, along with a packet of ancient tealights, and they lit them one by one to carry them into their bedroom.

Once the windowsills and the corners of the floor were filled with tiny glowing flames, Jess sat on the bed, sitting back against the pillows. Sam stretched out, laying his head in her lap; she wound her fingers into his hair, lazily.

Thunder crackled, faint and fair-off.

'You think that's why the electrics crapped out?' said Jess quietly.

'Maybe.'

It thundered again, booming like the heartbeat of water on rock.

'I hate storms,' said Sam.

'I kind of like them,' said Jess.

More thunder, and this time it was louder, as if it came from directly above them.

'Getting closer.'

'Mmm.'

Then light bleached the room, and in a silent half-second Sam glimpsed the fork of lightning lance the sky.

Jess said, 'I wish it would rain.'

'Will you marry me?' Sam turned his head to look up at her.

She leaned down, kissing him on the temple. He felt her smiling against the delicate skin. 'Duh.'

Sam smiled at her, sleepily, though she wouldn't be able to see it in the dark.

'I don't know, Carmen,' Dean mumbled. 'He's a weird kid, okay? He's a weird, geeky little kid.'

She turned over in bed to face him. 'C'mon, babe. I only asked why you two don't get on.'

Dean huffed, rolling over. 'We do get on.'

She raised her eyebrows. 'Your mom says otherwise.'

'For Chrissakes. We don't _not_ get on. Okay?'

'Yeah. Okay.' She laid a cool hand on his bicep. 'You know you can talk to me.'

'What is there to talk about?'

 **SPN SPN SPN**

'Jess?'

There was a strange smell in his nostrils. Something weirdly acrid, and his throat was dry.

His eyes felt sealed shut, so he reached for his glass of water with them closed, only to remember that he hadn't got one the night before- of course, they'd turned in early. He turned over in bed and burrowed his face into the pillow-

Heat. Heat on the side of his face and then Sam was sitting up with his heart thudding and he looked up at the ceiling and-

-and saw something impossible.

Wordless, he mouthed her name, and a patch of red bloomed on her stomach as she stared down at him, pinned like a bug-

Sam moved at last, rising up off the bed-

And fire, fire was everywhere, clawing and roiling over the ceiling like a rampant dragon, and Jess's face was blurred through the wall of heat and Sam choked on smoke-

Suddenly strong hands gripped his biceps, manhandling him off the bed and towards the door as he began to cough. Sam struggled against them, screaming her name, trying to fight his way back in there, but then they were out in the cool night air and Brady, it had been Brady, was grabbing his wrists and talking to him, 'Sam, man, calm down, you gotta calm down, I've dialled 911-'

He was shaking and wild-eyed, he knew, still struggling. 'Jess- she's in there, she's still in there, let me go, let me go, LET ME GO-'

Somehow Brady was stronger than him, keeping hold of Sam's wrists while he strained to run back. 'No! No way, Sam, it's suicide, look at you-'

'JESS! JESS!'

Sam finally managed to twist loose, and instantly buckled to his knees, coughing, and there were tears streaking his cheeks. He managed to get up, but then Brady had a hold of his shoulders again, and he was talking, just talking, and oh God she was in there she was still in there _she was still in there_ -

 **SPN SPN SPN**

The ringing of his cell woke Dean up. He shifted comfortably, lying in a patch of sunlight. 'Carmen...?'

She was lying bedside him, eyes still closed.

He sighed and reached for the phone. 'Hello?'

'Dean? This is Dean's number, right?'

Dean frowned. 'Who is this?' He looked at the Caller ID. It said 'Sam'.

'I'm Brady, Dean, from the party. Look, it's Sam.'

He sat up straight. 'What about Sam?'

A sigh. 'There's been a fire.' Then, 'No no no, Sam's okay, he's getting checked out by the paramedics, but... Jess, she...'

'Let me talk to him,' said Dean.

'I- I don't think- he's not really- he was hysterical, they had to put an oxygen mask on him-'

'I'll be there in three hours,' said Dean, and he put the phone down.


	3. In Which Bad Hospital Etiquette Occurs

The funeral was quiet and subdued, even though half of Stanford came.

Dean watched from the front row as Sam went forward, a bouqet of flowers in his hand, and stood in front of Jess's grave. He bowed his head.

Just when Sam had been standing there long enough for the audience to side-eye him, he laid the flowers carefully on the freshly-dug earth. Then he turned away and walked back over to the seat beside Dean, dry-eyed and tired-looking.

'Well done, kiddo,' said Dean under his breath as someone began to give a speech. Sam didn't respond.

It had been a week.

Sam had already been hospitalised when Dean got there; he'd been sedated and they kept him overnight in case of smoke inhalation. Beneath the oxygen mask, his face had been pale and tear-streaked; the sight pulled at Dean in a weird way, so he'd stayed, falling asleep in a chair next to the bed.

Only to wake up with a start the next morning when Sam ripped the mask off and started screaming and sobbing, fighting his way out of bed. Dean had jumped up and held his wrists down until a nurse got there and injected him with something; Sam slumped back against the pillows.

'What _is_ that?' Dean had said, staring in horror at the syringe.

'He'll be out for a few hours,' said the nurse. Dean looked at her, suspicious. She had short blonde hair, and her nametag read 'Megan'; in other circumstances he might have flirted.

The next time Sam woke up, he'd been calmer. His eyes widened, hands going shakily to the mask- obviously he hated the damn thing- but Dean put a hand over Sam's. 'No, Sam, come on. I know it's a bitch, but you might need it.'

Sam pulled it off anyway as soon as Dean took his hand away; he sucked in a breath, looking round at the ward with wide eyes. 'Where's Jessica?'

Oh, God, Dean had hoped it wouldn't come to this.

Sam looked at him. A curl of hair had fallen in one eye. 'Dean?' he said. His voice was scratchy from the smoke. 'Where's Jess?'

'Sam,' said Dean.

Sam's eyes were fixed on him pleadingly.

Dean cleared his throat. 'How... how much do you remember?'

His brother pressed his knuckles into his face. 'Um, there was a fire. Someone... someone pulled me out.' He looked up. 'You?'

Dean shook his head. 'Brady.'

'Oh.' He looked around. 'So where's Jess?'

'Sam...' How the hell was he going to say this?

'Yeah?'

'Jess. She, uh. I'm afraid she didn't make it.'

Sam was staring at him.

'I'm sorry, kiddo.'

'No,' said Sam. 'N-no. You pulled her out, right? Someone did? I mean, _I_ got out fine.' His voice was getting louder. 'This is the twenty-first century, people don't just- just _die_ in _fires_ , I mean, come _on_...'

'Sam, I'm sorry,' he said. 'I am so, so sorry.'

A pause, then Sam laughed. It was a wobbly sound. 'Dean, if this is some kind of sick joke-'

'Sam-'

Suddenly Sam winced, hard. He knuckled at his temples. 'Agh- D- Dean-'

Dean was seconds from shouting for a nurse, but then Sam doubled over, hunching up, clutching his head. He took Sam by the shoulders, uncurling his body, and put a palm to his forehead- nothing, no fever, but Sam was gasping now, clutching at him. 'She was on the ceiling, Dean- oh, God, she burned up, _she burned up_ -'

The blonde nurse- Megan- appeared by the bed, looking exasperated, but Dean held out a hand. 'I got it.'

'Okay, Winchester,' she said, clearly unconvinced, but she left them, drawing the curtains round their partition.

Sam was no longer in pain, it seemed, but he was shaking so bad Dean could actually see it. He sat down on the bed beside Sam and drew his brother to him, but Sam turned his face away. Dean was pretty sure he was crying.

There was something niggling at the back of Dean's mind, something not right. But Sam's curly head still smelled like bonfires. He had enough to worry about as it was.

 **SPN SPN SPN**

When the funeral was over, the crowd stood by her grave. No-one was wearing black- Jess's parents had been very firm on that- but a fine, misty rain was falling, beading eyelashes and hair and grass.

Carmen touched Dean on the shoulder. 'How is he?'

'Oh, he's peachy.'

'Dean.'

They looked over at where Sam was being embraced by their mother. He put his arms awkwardly round her.

'Sorry,' said Dean. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. 'I'm just tired, I guess.'

'You know,' she said, gently, 'you don't have to stay up with him.'

'He has nightmares, Carmen.'

'I don't mean that no-one should. But you don't have to do it by yourself, Dean.'

'There's no-one else.'

They both stopped talking as Mary led Sam over to them. Carmen gave Sam a soft, sympathetic hug; Dean made as if to hug him, then changed his mind and patted him on the back. 'How're you doing?'

'I'm fine,' said Sam. Carmen and Mary exchanged glances.

The crowd round the grave was starting to dissipate. Sam looked over at it, and Dean saw a yearning in his eyes.

'Um,' Sam said. 'Would you mind if I- if I take a moment? Alone?'

They all muttered 'Sure' and backed off a little, letting Sam walk over to the grave. The crowd was gone now. He stood there alone, a slender figure against a grey, luminous sky.

'C'mon,' said Dean. 'Let's go. Give the kid some privacy.'

As they walked away through the graveyard, it occured to him what had been niggling at his mind. How had the nurse in the hospital known their name was 'Winchester'?


	4. In Which The Winchester Boys Cut Loose

The man was about Sam's age, with a twitchy, worn-thin look and papery skin. He crossed a car park, kneading his temples with one set of knuckles, fumbling for his keys with his other hand. It was night, water glistening on the concrete, and the place seemed deserted.

A warehouse chimney spewed smoke, and if the man had looked behind him he'd've seen a figure silhouetted against it. Then the figure sank back into the building's shadow.

The man got his keys out at last, then yanked the car door without unlocking it. He cursed. There was sweat beading on his forehead. He tried to stick the key in the lock and missed, hands shaking too hard; the key carved a scratch into the paint. 'Shit. Shit.' He tried again, the key glancing off the metal, and again, and again, hands trembling worse and worse each time; then he dropped the keys.

Behind him, footsteps.

The man was practically crying, scrabbling round under the car for his keys, not realising they were by his foot.

'Need a hand with that?'

The man froze, on his knees by the car. Then he started to get to his feet, very slowly.

The first stab caught him in the stomach; he clutched at it, eyes protruding as the blade slid out, then viciously in through the ribcage, with a crunch of bone and cartiledge, bursting a lung.

The blade pulled back, sliding through the shredded mess of his insides. Blood drooled from his lips, black in the light. His knees hit the ground-

-and Sam slammed into the floor with enough force to jolt himself awake, having rolled off the bed in a tangle of quilts. He scrabbled past layers of bedspread to pull his t-shirt up and run his hands over his chest, feeling for wounds, taking in a breath to check his lungs went unpunctured.

His skin was hot and smooth; unbroken. He breathed in deep enough to feel dizzy.

There was a helplessness to these dreams. He felt like he was watching the events from behind a camera, but he couldn't direct where it went; trapped behind it, it only showed him what it wanted him to know. He'd itched, tonight, for a look at the killer; instead it was the victim's fear-drawn face that he couldn't unsee.

He got up, using the mattress for leverage, and stumbled off to splash water in his eyes. His family were going home after another day. He had to get his act together.

When they were gone, it'd just be him and Brady and Luis and Becca and all the other friends who could barely look at him. Over the past four years, Jess had become such a part- not just of him, but of his routine. Helping each other make breakfast in the morning- Jess walking round the kitchen with a bit of toast held in her mouth, Sam kissing her on the nose- helping each other with notes, principles, memorisations later on, maybe crashing in front of a movie on a Saturday, legs tangled together on the sofa, her hair tickling him whenever she shifted.

Their last movie together had been a fortnight ago. Only fourteen days. They'd watched- God, what had they watched? _What had they watched?_

'Sam? You okay?'

Brady. Sam didn't take his head out of the sink. 'Yeah. Fine.'

The Shining. That had been it. If he'd known it had been the last movie they'd ever see together, he'd've pulled Jess closer. Paid a little less attention to Jack Nicholson.

Sam sluiced his face again.

For the past few days, he'd been staying in the motel room next to Dean's. Yesterday, Brady had offered to let him stay at his apartment til he got his feet back under him; it wasn't like he could cling to his family forever, so Sam had consented.

But, God, if he could cling to them, he would. Over the past week, he'd come so close to just begging Dean to just drive away with him in the Impala, put thousands upon thousands of miles between him and Palo Alto. And Dean might, if he really milked it. Dean had been very allowing of him lately.

If he did that, though, would he ever come back?

He bolted the bathroom door, drew the broken blind as far down as it would go, and stepped into the shower, turning the water to the coldest setting. He brushed his teeth in there, trying to get the taste of smoke and soot and blood out.

When Sam went into the kitchen, Brady was already putting his jacket on, holding his keys in his mouth.

'Hey,' said Sam.

'Hey.' The keys dropped from Brady's mouth. Sam flinched, but went to pick them up, handing them back to his friend.

'You okay?' Brady said, not looking round at him as he unlocked the door.

Sam cleared his throat. 'Yeah. I'm fine.'

'Cause, Sam...' he paused. 'Look, I was thinking.'

Sam looked at him questioningly, aware that he was standing in the middle of the kitchen. It felt a little... exposed. Which was ridiculous. It was a kitchen.

'Maybe you should take a break,' said Brady carefully. 'Have a little time off, yeah?'

'I am taking a break,' he said, pretending not to get it.

'No. I mean, like, a holiday. A road trip. A change of scenery. Anything.'

And for a moment Sam felt it, that tug towards the open road. But leaving... leaving would make it final. Leaving would mean that he'd lost her. For good.

'Thanks, Brady. I'll think about it.'

He sat down at the table and pulled a newspaper towards him. It was open on a double spread, and his eyes drifted idly over it as Brady turned to go-

-and snagged on a face.

Sam stared for a moment. Then he pulled the paper closer, checking to see if he was right, if it was really-

It was.

 **SPN SPN SPN**

Dean put the car into gear and pulled out of the motel drive with a squeal of tyres, nearly flattening a Honda. The diner was all of a five-minute drive; he managed to shorten it to two, white-knuckling the steering wheel and overtaking several grocery vans. He parked the Impala, got out, realised he'd put it in a disabled spot, got back in, reparked it, and half-ran into the diner.

At nine in the morning, it was virtually empty. In fact, Sam was the only person here, hunched over a limp salad in the corner booth. Dean strode towards him. 'Sam! Sam? What's the matter?'

Sam looked slowly up at him, red-eyed, and huffed a tiny laugh. 'You must have scorched your tire tracks into the road.'

Dean slid into the opposite side of the booth. 'Dammit, Sam, what is it?' The words were at odds with the gentleness of his hands on Sam's shoulders.

Sam shied his head away. 'Dean, you have to promise me something.'

'Anything.' His eyes stayed fixed on Sam.

'It sounds crazy. I mean, at first I thought I was going crazy, but now- I can't be.' He put his head in his hands. 'Which is so much worse.'

'Sam!'

Sam looked up, but they were interrupted by the waitress. 'What can I get you?' she asked Dean, deadpan.

'Double cheeseburger, please,' he said automatically. She bustled off, and Dean turned back to his brother.

Sam lowered his voice, aware of their surroundings now. 'You have to promise you'll believe me.'

'I swear. Look, you want me to shake on it or something?' He spat into his palm and offered it.

Sam looked faintly nauseated. 'That's okay.'

Dean withdrew the hand. 'C'mon, man. You gotta tell me. Something's eating you.'

But Sam only twitched and blinked. 'Maybe this was a bad idea,' he muttered.

Dean had never really known how to help his little brother. Not when he grazed his knees because another kindergartener shoved him over; not when he caught the flu so bad he was hospitalised; not when his dog died and, aged twelve, he cried for a week.

But this time he had to, because there was no-one else capable. And this wasn't something you could just stick a band-aid over.

'Sam,' he said, gently as he could. 'I can't begin to imagine what you're going through, man. And I'm not gonna come out with a load of crap about time healing, because how would I know, right?'

Sam looked up, sad-eyed.

'But, Sam- you can't let whatever it is torment you like this. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get you back on your feet, you hear me? But you gotta open up to me. You gotta let me help you.'

'I- I don't-'

'Sam,' he said. 'What would Jess say?'

His brother looked at him, and then something broke. Dean watched it happen, watched as Sam makes a tiny noise like an bewildered kitten and pressed his fists into his eyes and started _crying_ , right there in the brightly-lit diner. He makes no noise, but tears trail out from beneath his fists, and Dean just sits and mutely watches, wishing to god that he hadn't said anything.

Above them, someone cleared their throat. 'One double cheeseburger.'

'Thanks,' says Dean as she laid it down and walked away, totally indifferent.

Sam just kept on silently crying.

After a minute, he got a grip, dragging the sleeves of his sweater over his face and snivelling. 'D-Dean?'

'Yeah, Sam?'

'Look, I know this sounds crazy, okay? Like, really crazy. But you just have to please believe me.'

'Go on.' Dean was biting into the cheeseburger. A man had his needs, dammit.

Sam closed his eyes, then said, all in one breath, 'I dreamt about Jessica's death the night before it happened.' He opened his eyes. Dean had stopped chewing. 'Like, the exact way it happened. And I thought it was just, like, some kind of weird backwards memory phenomena, I guess I didn't want to admit to myself that there was something more going on, but then last night I dreamed about this guy getting stabbed and then this morning it was in the papers, Dean, he'd been murdered the exact way I dreamt, one stab wound to the abdomen and one to the heart, and I recognised his face, and I think I might actually be psychic, like for real, and it's scaring the fuck outta me.'

Dean's mouth hung open.

'Dean,' said Sam.

Dean continued to stare.

'Dean,' said Sam.

'You're right,' said Dean. 'That is weird.'

'Do you believe me?'

'I said I did, didn't I?'

'You said that before I said that I had multiple premonitions of my girlfriend being burned alive on an aertex ceiling.'

Dean shrugged. 'Well, maybe I'm just a superstitious guy.' He pushed the plate away. He was no longer hungry. 'So what do you want to do about it?'

He knew he'd said the right thing when Sam's face slackened with relief. 'I need to get out of here, Dean. I need to look for answers.'

'So what,' said Dean, 'you're thinking Great American Road Trip?'

It seemed a wise option. After all, if Sam was nuts, it couldn't do him any harm to get away for a it, and if he wasn't- well, they'd tackle that when they came to it.

And Sam had this look of longing on his face, but then he shut it off. 'What about your job?'

Dean shrugged. 'Screw the garage. I'll take a month out, tell them it's a family emergency. They owe me time anyways.'

Sam looked a little more tentatively hopeful, but not all the way there yet. 'And- and Carmen?'

He considered. 'Maybe she can stay with Mom. I mean, those two are always plotting together. They'll love it.'

Looking like he was about to collapse with relief, Sam said, 'Thank you.'

He held up his hands. 'No problem. You're still a little shit.'

A weak grin from Sam. Dean felt suddenly, inexplicably happy.

'Dean,' Sam said, and made a strange, jerky movement towards him, but Dean was already getting up, tossing a ten onto the register. 'C'mon, Samantha,' he said. 'Pack your crap. I'll go tell Mom and Carmen.'

Sam blinked. 'What, we're leaving now?'

Dean slung his jacket over his shoulder. 'You got a better idea?'

'God no,' said Sam vehemently, and scrambled out of the booth. 'No way.'


End file.
